Sunday, July 1, 2012

Maybe A Vacation At The Equator Would Be Cooler

Because the heat has addled my brain, it is stuck on one subject. Do not feel obligated to leave a comment. There are only so many ways to describe the temperature.

It was so hot today that the chickens did not want to partake of their favorite treat: cantaloupe seeds. They meandered over to the side yard rather than running with that awkward chickeny gait where their legs plow out to the side like rowboat oars. And they sniffed the seeds. Yeah! Who knew that chickens are sniffers? Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. But that's what they did. One of the roosters indulged. They usually let the hens have first pick.

A couple of the young chickens grabbed some hunks of a tomato that succumbed to a mold spot. If you have chickens, you can imagine how one ran around with that tomato wedge while a dozen others chased after. They must not understand cantaloupe. Because those youngsters were not lacking in energy in the tomato department.

It was so hot that a squirrel WALKED across the road. Apparently, squirrels are the new possums. The car in front of me straddled him, so he wasn't squashed. Possums, take note.

The cats refused to move from their Salvador Dali limp postures. The dogs were not in evidence. Even a thief tossing them a tasty bone in a Mayhem commercial for Allstate could not have gotten a rise out of them. I'm guessing they were holed up under the vehicles in the driveway, in cool, dusty holes they've dug halfway to China. Or laying down in the creek.

I feel very sorry for Nellie, our long-haired, blue-eyed, white goat. She is very pregnant. Hopefully, not with triplets again. The poor thing must be miserable in this heat. She's sticking to the shade. The Pony fills the goats' water tub twice a day.

This weather is not fit for man nor beast.


Sioux said...

And since we DO have to deal with it, the heat makes us into beasts. Add the horrible triple-digit temps to hot flashes and you have the makings for a felony...

Hillbilly Mom said...

I admit it. I'm a beast. And I'm ready to rip a head off after looking into Frig this morning.

Last night, I instructed Farmer H to put the #1 son's leftover spaghetti into the container of sauce that I had left over. Because he could take it in his lunch, you know. He's no stranger to eating what has been left on another's plate. Knowingly, or not.

So there it was, on the top shelf, not only untaken in a lunch, but in a SEPARATE container, one that I CARE about getting all stained from red sauce.

I may be a beast, but Farmer H is an animal.